All Things Have Their Time
by Sentimental Star
Summary: Edmund learns what it really means to love...--Brotherfic. Book and Moviebased.-- EDIT: CHAPTER 3 IS UP!
1. On the Nature of Learning and Time

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C. S. Lewis and Walden Media

_**Author's Note:**_ Okay, this was originally intended to be a prequel to _Keeping the Faith _and _Learning to Walk Blindfolded_ (which I promise I'm working on ::grins::); now, though, I'm thinking this will be a standalone (and multi-chapter) fic. Don't know. We'll see. I can't promise I'll be updating regularly—as seems to be the case these days, I'm working on all of my fics sporadically, when I have the time, or when I just need to get away from Grad School and everything that comes with it. I hope you enjoy!

_**Rating:**_ T

_**Summary:**_ Edmund learns what it really means to love…(Book and Moviebased) (_NO _Slash)

"_**Speech"**_

_**/Personal Thoughts/**_

_**Memories/Quotes (Italics)**_

_All Things Have Their Time_

_By Sentimental Star_

_Prologue: On the Nature of Learning and Time_

_

* * *

_

_To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace—Ecclesiastes 3:1-8_

* * *

(Spring 1946, England)

It was both a gift and a curse that the Pevensie siblings felt so deeply, far more deeply than many of their age-mates. It hadn't always been that way, and especially not for Edmund.

He knew when it had started—when things had gone so wrong that they just had to go right. /Of course,/ he reflected wryly, sitting on the edge of his older brother's bed and watching Peter, back home in Finchley for a short visit from the university, sleep, /it's my own fault that they went wrong in the first place.../

_Tbc._


	2. Letting the Sun Rise

**_Disclaimer: _**I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C. S. Lewis and Walden Media.

_**Author's Note:**_ All right, folks, I'm not sure where this came from (though I'm loving it more and more). I just took an idea and ran with it. This particular part is very different from how it was portrayed in either the movie _or _the book, and I've held onto it tenaciously ever since coming up with it. I hope you like it, just be aware that it's rather dark!

_**Rating:**_ T

_**Summary:**_ Edmund learns what it really means to love…(Book and Moviebased) (_NO _Slash)

"_**Speech"**_

_**/Personal Thoughts/**_

_**Memories/Quotes (Italics)**_

_All Things Have Their Time_

_By Sentimental Star_

_Chapter One: Letting the Sun Rise_

(Six Years Ago by British Reckoning)

Edmund had always been a little different. Smaller, more fragile. Sullen, more brooding—even when he was only four or five. He didn't like touch, and when one day one of his teachers had asked him what he loved best about his family, he had asked her, quite honestly, what she meant by "love." It had alarmed the poor woman enough that she called in Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie to a meeting the very next day.

Everything was nicely sorted out, of course. Mrs. Pevensie had explained that Edmund did not understand "love" in quite the same context as his age-mates. Certainly, he knew he was cared for, but he wasn't one of those children who cried and clung to their parent or sibling the first day of primary school; nor was he a particularly affectionate child by nature. Furthermore, he always went awkward and stiff when touched by anyone other than his mother or grandmother. Even with his mother, he left the embrace almost as soon as it had been initiated. They had hoped he would be more receptive to Peter, as his older brother tended to be more demonstrative than their father. They had held the same hope for his sisters, but neither outcome ever occurred.

The teacher had hinted—delicately—that Edmund might be mildly autistic, but Mrs. Pevensie had merely shrugged and conceded that yes, he might be, but could they really be sure?

Of course, then the War and boarding school came, and things had taken rather a bad turn. Edmund became outright hostile when he was angry and Mrs. Pevensie feared—with his father gone off to war—that things would only get worse.

And they did. They had. And now, Edmund was utterly miserable because of it.

A lot of things started changing, then. He just wasn't aware of it. Actually, to be strictly accurate, they had probably already started changing his most recent year at boarding school.

Funny, he hadn't thought about it—_really_ thought about it—until now. He hadn't had the time or the insight, he supposed.

Well, he had ample amounts of both now.

He let out a faint breath of a sigh, shivering in the cool evening air and shifting awkwardly in a futile attempt to find a more comfortable position.

But being bound tightly to a tree really didn't afford him that simple luxury. He ached, was exhausted, his face smarted, and he had gone without food for so long that he no longer felt hungry.

Peter would have gone into an apoplectic fit if he had seen him like this, Edmund observed wryly, the lingering resentment of his 'perfect' older brother slowly but surely ebbing away as every single one of his defenses was battered and torn to the ground. Peter panicked when he had merely skinned his _knees_.

He hadn't realized until now that he could be exactly the same. Not that he panicked when he saw bruises or blood on his brother's skin, but he certainly didn't like it. Granted, at that point, he usually lashed out at Peter. It wasn't that he was uncaring. Rather, he hated being concerned over someone who, to his frustrated, angry mind, he shouldn't _be_ concerned _over_.

He'd tried to play the part of indifferent younger brother—and had done it well enough, he thought with a wince, to fool Peter. But the bullies had learned this past year at boarding school that if you wanted to get at Pevensie (the younger one, no one was quite stupid enough to try it with Peter), insult his brother.

It was easy enough to do (out of Peter's hearing range, that is). Peter looked nothing like Edmund. His looks came almost solely from their father, while the majority of Edmund's came from their mother. They were as _un_-alike as two brothers could be, and that provided ample fodder for any number of taunts.

He had never really liked being so different from Peter. They were opposites in every sense of the word: golden and pale, flaxen and ebony, cheerful and brooding. No one seemed to believe they were brothers, and after a while, Edmund started believing it, too.

But that didn't mean he would ever let anyone get away with insulting Peter, unaware of it though his brother was.

The older boy usually stumbled across them after fists (and very often Edmund's) had already flown. It didn't help that Edmund never told Peter why he'd gotten into the fight in the first place.

He'd tried once. Peter hadn't listened.

Of course, the ten-year-old reflected darkly, he'd not exactly endeared himself to his brother at that point, being found in a fight with a supposed "friend" of Peter's, and then accusing that same "friend" of calling his brother a "bastard's child." It had hurt that Peter had believed his friend over his little brother.

He now realized Peter's sense of character had always been slightly off. His brother quite simply refused to see anything but the best in people, and it often blinded him to the worst.

/Not that you're any wonderful judge of character yourself,/ he thought with a quiet, derisive snort.

He sank back, exhausted, against the trunk behind him and shut his eyes, barely wincing at the bite of the whip lacerations on his back. They had long ago ceased to stand out from the all-encompassing ache that was his body.

He supposed he should try to sleep, but sleep had been eluding him for the past two days. Until he knew Peter and Susan and Lucy were safe (and that didn't seem likely to happen any time soon), his eyes simply would not shut.

Not that he'd really been allowed to try: the dungeon in the Witch's castle had been too cold (so cold, that for a while he had forgotten what it felt like to be warm), and the Witch's sledge had been too jolting; the churning nausea in his stomach would not have permitted it, anyway. After the sledge had ceased to be functional, he'd had his arms tied roughly behind his back and been herded along like cattle (and had been treated harsher than any cow would have been allowed to). He still had the whip marks on the back of his legs to prove it.

Between the lashes, hunger, dehydration (he'd had nothing to eat since the Beavers' dam), and sleep-deprivation, he suspected he'd be headed into delirium soon. But oddly, none of it seemed to matter anymore. He'd long since concluded that he deserved every shred of abuse that had been heaped on him, so willing had he been to turn his siblings in for _candy_.

It didn't matter that he was terrified, or that his body was swiftly heading into shock. If it stalled the White Witch long enough, so much the better. Every hour that he remained here was another hour his siblings had to live.

IOIOIOIOIOI

He was in sorry shape when they found him. Beaten, whipped, half-starved, dehydrated, he knew he must look a mess, if the expression on—well, he supposed it was a Centaur's—face was anything to go by.

When one of the Fauns cut his ropes, he remembered a momentary flash of Mr. Tumnus's stone face frozen forever in pained horror, and was promptly sick. Unfortunately, because he hadn't had anything to eat or drink in the past two days, there was little for his stomach to get rid of except bile. He ended up half dry-heaving, half weakly sobbing.

Had he been able to look up at that moment in time, he would have seen at least half his rescuers' wooden faces melt away to become suffused with compassion, and on the black Centaur's face, compassion rapidly dissolving into tenderness and fierce devotion. When strong arms came around him and easily lifted him against a broad chest, Edmund only managed a faint "Thank you" before his mind spiraled into darkness.

IOIOIOIOIOI

Edmund was not conscious when they entered Aslan's camp near the Stone Table. He was not aware his brother had been out late walking, unable to sleep, with half-formed thoughts of visiting Aslan or the girls. Thoughts which immediately vanished upon the arrival of the rescue party in camp.

He was not awoken by Peter's cry when his brother caught sight of his small, limp form curled up in Oreius's strong arms as the Centaur General galloped into the encampment like the very hounds of hell yipped at his heels. Nor did he see his brother leap towards the Centaur, only to be gently held back by a vigilant Cheetah, who feared further harm for the battered body in her Captain's arms.

He was not aware that Peter fought and pulled and struggled so much to reach him that eventually only Aslan himself was able to restrain him. He did not feel Oreius first carefully untangle his fingers from the Centaur's hair before handing him over to the oldest of the Dryads for healing. Nor did he hear the flap of the Healers' tent fall shut behind her as the Centaur turned to attend to the crying monarch within the circle of Aslan's paws.

Edmund woke only as the sun was coming up the next day, when a slant of rosy-golden light fell across his face and the tent flap opened to admit a Dwarven Healer.

"Well, well," the Healer's voice was gruff, but his blue eyes twinkled merrily as he came up to Edmund's bedside. "How fare you this morn, lad?"

Before he had a chance to reply, there was an outraged squawk from a shadowed corner. "Rorin! Mind your words—that's our prince you're talking to!"

The Dwarf, evidently named Rorin, rolled his eyes, turning towards the voice and jabbing a stubby finger in its approximate direction, "Don't matter. Lad, prince, king, it's all one in the same to me. And that _lad_," his emphasis was clearly on the word 'lad,' "so far as I'm concerned, is all skin and bones." The Dwarf winked at him, and gave his side a friendly poke to prove his point. Edmund winced as he carefully sat up, trying to twist away without making it obvious that he was. Rorin apparently noticed. "That hurt, eh?" his eyes kept twinkling at Edmund's hesitant nod, "Good. That means they're healing."

Glancing down, Edmund, for the first time, took a good look at his body.

His upper torso was completely wrapped in bandages.

They were linen, and white. His shirt was obviously nowhere in sight. And…he winced again, shifting…his back stung like the bloody blue blazes.

Rorin looked delighted. "You were banged up real good, you were, but we managed to fix you right up. That's Dryad medicine for you," added when Edmund held up hands and examined them with something close to awe as he realized the rope burns were barely visible anymore, "Real potent stuff, it is."

Edmund could only nod dumbly, starting to feel a trifle overwhelmed. He had to slide his hands into his lap and underneath the sheets to hide their shaking as he slowly started to realize that he was _safe_.

Rorin, fortunately, did not notice. His voice turned gruff again, "Now, I suppose you'd like to be getting out of that bed, wouldn't you?"

Edmund nodded again, without a sound.

Rorin cocked his head curiously. "Don't talk too much, do you?"

There was an agitated rustling of feathers from the only other occupant of the tent. "Rorin, really!" came the reprimand. "You're probably frightening the poor boy!"

Rorin rolled his eyes again, turning as a shuffle of feet and another rustle of feathers announced that the speaker had left her hiding spot.

Edmund caught in his breath as a beautiful Peregrine Falcon, slate grey with flecks of white, stepped out into the sunlight. Around one shoulder was wrapped a white bandage, stained lightly red, and she stretched that wing carefully as she came to stand by Rorin at his bed.

She was much larger than the Peregrine Falcons he knew from Britain, and stood at about the same height as the Dwarf beside her. She clearly also talked, and Edmund watched her in dazed awe as she irritably tugged at the bandage. "Stupid thing," she muttered. She turned to Rorin and demanded, "When can I get it off?"

The Dwarf crossed his stout little arms over his chest with a thump, wearing a faint scowl, "When I say so, and that's that."

She shook her head and rustled her tail feathers in clear agitation. "Rorin, Ottman barely nicked me. How in Narnia am I supposed to fight in the battle like this?"

Rorin jabbed his finger (not particularly lightly) into her unwounded shoulder, "You are to stay put by the explicit direction of General Oreius, Arrowwing. Only by his word, Captain, may I release you. As I shan't for a while, you had best get comfortable."

When Arrowwing huffed and grumbled, but did not object further, Rorin appeared satisfied that he had won and abruptly turned back to Edmund. "Now, then, lad, let's get you out of that bed, shall we? I've got your tunic, leggings, jerkin, boots, and cloak here…though, I daresay, you won't be needing that one for a while." As he spoke, Rorin began pulling out clothing of every color in the rainbow and then some. Edmund was even mildly horrified to see a pink shirt tucked away with all the others. Oblivious to his patient's discomfort, Rorin kept talking, though Arrowwing had seen, and if ever a bird could smirk, this one did.

She ruffled her feathers, beginning to preen them. "Don't look so worried, your Majesty. I assure you, that is only an extra and you have no need to wear it if you so choose. In fact," she paused momentarily, cocking her head thoughtfully as she studied him, "I daresay the Dryads are at their looms even now, weaving more cloth for more clothing. I am not sure yet what colors they will choose to outfit you with, but I do hear that it's to compliment King Peter's."

Edmund, who had carefully been slipping to his feet from where he sat on the bed, clad in only a pair of silk sleeping pants, stiffened when he heard the title—and the name that went with it.

Apparently noticing, Arrowwing stopped preening her feathers. "That's right, didn't you know? Your siblings are here with us, too." She gave him a sharp-beaked smile. "You're ours, I'm afraid."

Edmund could only shake his head, hands trembling even more, as tears started beating at the back of his eyelids. His pressed his lips together in attempt to hide their quivering as he processed her statement: his siblings were safe. They were _safe_. He didn't care that Peter was a king, or that his sisters, although Arrowwing had not mentioned it, were likely queens. It didn't _matter_. His siblings were safe, they were _alive_.

That was all that _could_ matter.

/Oh, thank God. Thank _God_, really./

He started crying.

_Tbc_.


	3. Can I Know, Or Will You Teach Me?

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C. S. Lewis and Walden Media.

_**Author's Note:**_ Frankly speaking, I'm blasted. But that's beside the point. I wanted to get this chapter out and hopefully will follow up soon with additional chapters to this and my other stories. With any luck, summer courses will allow me at least a little more free time to write. Please enjoy this chapter to its utmost!

_**Reviewers:**_ Thank you so much for all your reviews! I know this scene is (again) rather different from its book and movie counterparts, but it rather took me over.

_**Rating:**_ T

_**Summary:**_ Edmund learns what it really means to love…(Book and Moviebased) (Brotherfic) (_NO _Slash)

"_**Speech"**_

_**/Personal Thoughts/**_

_**Quotes/Memories (Italics)**_

_All Things Have Their Time_

_By Sentimental Star_

_Chapter Two: Can I Know, Or Will You Teach Me?_

After much panicking and fussing by Rorin and Arrowwing, Edmund emerged from the tent some time later, cheeks scrubbed of tears and dressed in a fresh set of clothes. There, in the early morning light and the crisp air of spring, he stopped dead as the tent flap fell shut behind him. Across from the entrance to the medical tent, a tall, lanky form rose to their feet from where they had been sitting against a water barrel, wincing and rubbing at their legs.

For several endless seconds, the two merely stared at each other. Then Edmund's jaw dropped. "_Peter?_" he asked incredulously. "Have you been sitting there the entire _night_?"

His older brother sputtered out a thick, strangled laugh. "Nearly," he managed.

More staring. Utter incredulity covered Edmund's face, and the words hung unspoken between them, _Why on earth would you __do__ that?_

Peter shrugged uncomfortably, turning away and scrubbing irritably at his cheeks.

Peter, Edmund realized with no small amount of shock, was—or had been—crying. Peter _never_ cried, at least not where Edmund could see it. Now, though…his brother's blue eyes were swollen and his cheeks streaked red with tears.

Something in his chest twisted sharply, and Edmund gasped faintly at the unfamiliar sensation. He realized his fingers—his arms—were aching, aching for…aching for _what_? But Peter chose that moment to turn back to him, and he quite forgot about anything else except the bright flare of panic that shot through his body when Peter's fingertips reached out and shakily brushed away his bangs. The look in the older boy's eyes was agonized, "Ed," his older brother swallowed hard, "Ed, listen, can I…?"

All at once, Edmund realized that Peter desperately wanted to hug him, but didn't quite dare with the memory of rejection upon rejection branded onto his heart.

It had never been intentional, Edmund just didn't like touch. When someone hugged him—and Peter had often tried—his lungs seized up and he panicked, always finding it difficult to breathe. He could never say what, precisely, caused such a strong reaction or why, but he had come to fear it and so, attempted to avoid it at all costs.

But things had changed, and all throughout the long, cold hours he had spent in the Witch's dungeons, the one thing that had sustained him was imagining Peter's arms around him.

Reality, of course, was quite different from imagination. Edmund wasn't quite sure how he could fix the rift that he had let grow between them, or even if he _should_. He had no experience in matters such as this, and was frankly terrified of messing it up if he tried.

So he opened his mouth, a great deal of hesitation apparent on his face and not at all sure what would come out of it…when a throat cleared softly somewhere behind them.

Both Edmund and Peter spun to face a nearby ridge, Peter's hand flying to the sword at his hip. And then, Edmund forgot to breathe. For there—terrifying, majestic, huge—stood a Lion, framed by the red blaze of sunrise. "Edmund, Son of Adam."

It was a rumble, nearly a growl. Without asking, Edmund knew. This was, "Aslan," his voice quavered.

No one had ever told him that something could be so wonderful and terrible all at once.

Obeying the unmistakable summons, Edmund allowed his feet to carry him where he was meant to go, eyes never wavering from the Lion.

For all intents and purposes it should have been easy enough, but a panicked Peter, who had been separated from his younger brother a little too long (years, really), grabbed for him. "_Edmund_!"

The exclamation was wild—and pained. When Peter's hand seized his own, Edmund jerked around, terribly startled.

The look on his brother's face was not one he was used to seeing, or perhaps he had simply never looked close enough. The older boy's blue eyes were pleading with all he had, and Edmund swallowed thickly against the rather large lump currently lodged in his throat.

"Later," he promised tightly, his grip on his seesawing emotions tenuous at best, and giving his brother's fingers a hard squeeze.

IOIOIOIOIOI

He did not see his brother's face when he turned away. Did not notice Peter raising his trembling hand to his mouth or the older boy's shoulders jerk with repressed sobs as he squeezed his eyes shut.

He did not hear a frightened Susan, who had just emerged from the girls' tent with Lucy, demand to know what was wrong. He did not even hear Lucy's joyful shriek as she caught sight of his back heading away from them.

He had only eyes for Aslan, who had whisked around in front of him and now silently led the way up the ridge.

At various turns feeling nervous, frightened, and even fiercely glad, Edmund followed the Lion to a grassy knoll overlooking the sea.

Settling on his haunches, Aslan faced East, where the new sun was just breaking through the clouds. Edmund stood quietly in place, waiting for him to speak and wondering faintly if he were about to be, well, eaten or some other equally just punishment. The he wondered if the Lion might, at least, allow him to say good-bye to his siblings. He didn't fancy breaking another promise to Peter when so many had been broken already, but—

"I wish you would not think ill of me, Son of Adam," the statement was sudden, and a quiet rumble.

Edmund started. A slow flush worked its way across his cheeks and he suddenly felt rather foolish that he had thought such a thing at all. He barely managed to stammer out a coherent response, "I-I…that is, I'm sorry, it's just…I've never…" He took in a deep breath (not that it helped any) and finally repeated, rather miserably, "I'm sorry."

It felt so inadequate, so pathetic, in the face of what he had done. He had never felt so many forcefully contrary emotions in his life. He rather thought he was incapable of feeling, really. There was so much hurt in him, so much anger. He hated what he had been, what he had become—and yet knew he deserved every bit of it, and more.

"I wish you would not think ill of yourself, either."

That statement, so full of sadness and regret, startled Edmund so badly that his entire body jerked. His mind double- and triple-checked that statement before he was convinced he had heard it correctly.

His face went ashen. "What?" he choked. "After what I _did_? After what I was going to _do_? I'm a traitor, Aslan! A monster! How can I possibly think otherwise?"

Aslan finally turned to face him, his golden eyes deep wells of sorrow. "Do you wish forgiveness, Son of Adam?" he asked simply.

All the blood rushed to Edmund's head. Forgiveness? Did he wish _forgiveness_? A half-hysterical laugh bubbled up from his throat: "I don't even know how to _ask_," he choked.

He was utterly dazed in the next minute by the warm smile that broke out on the Lion's lips. "You just did," Aslan stated softly. His face was suffused with what could only be described as tenderness. "And I grant it to you gladly. Welcome home, my dear, dear child."

Edmund stared at the Lion a full two minutes before, with a strangled sort of keen, he sank to his knees and his hands flew up to clap over his mouth.

IOIOIOIOIOI

It was a while before Edmund became aware of Aslan's nose nudging insistently into his shoulder and felt the worried rumble that sounded more like a purr vibrate through his body. An errant sob was smothered in a sea of sweet-smelling gold.

He tensed up, expecting—and dreading—the all too familiar panic.

It never came. For one single instant, his entire being wavered and then stood still.

A second later, tears flooded down his cheeks.

Edmund would never remember how long he lay there, tangled in Aslan's mane. It was irrelevant in the overall scheme of things. That point was—he _had_. For the first time in living memory, he didn't shy away from physical touch.

No words, in any language, would be able to describe the relief he felt in the next few moments upon realizing that.

It took effort for Edmund to finally pull away some time later. But in his heart, as he knelt there in the dewy grass of morning—exhausted, shaken—a tentative seed of hope, even wonder, took root…and began to grow.

If…if he could accept this sort of affection, then…then perhaps…perhaps he was not so far gone as he had feared. And if he could feel this way with Aslan—

"As I love you, so your brother and your sisters love you, Edmund," the Lion informed him softly. "It is for that reason they show their affection the way they do. Yours can become one of the truest hearts I know, if you but give it a chance to flourish."

Edmund did not expect the stab of utter _pain_ that shot through his heart at those words. "But _how_, Aslan?" his voice cracked. "How can I possibly achieve all that you say?" He huddled in on himself, hugging his hands under his arms as he shivered. His next statement was a broken whisper, "I'm not sure I've ever properly loved before."

He nearly started crying again when what could only be considered a smile graced Aslan's lips. "Then you must learn." The Lion leaned close and started nuzzling his cheek, his warm breath pattering against Edmund's face. "The first step of many," he rumbled solemnly as he drew away, "is to give your love in return."

At that moment, a young voice—sweet and high as a flute—sang out gaily, "_Edmund_!"

As he whipped around and caught sight of the girls, one on either side of Peter at the bottom of the ridge, Edmund froze.

IOIOIOIOIOI

For several unending minutes, he couldn't move. Then, Aslan gave him a firm nudge in his back (to which Edmund did his damnedest to hide his wince). "Go to them, Dear One. They have missed you."

Swallowing hard, Edmund nodded and slowly made his way down the cliff face towards his siblings, more than a little uncertain. He hardly knew how to approach this situation, unused to it as he was. Maybe at one time he would have merely apologized, and then slipped off, trying to make himself as scarce as possible for the next few days—out of everyone's hair ,out of everyone's thoughts.

But things had changed, and with Aslan's directive, _"Yours can become one of the truest hearts I know, if you but give it a chance to flourish,"_ echoing in his mind, Edmund took a deep breath and put purpose into his stride.

It did not take long for him to reach his brother and sisters. When he was about an arm's length from them, he stopped, stopped and watched them, gauging their reaction.

Peter he was fairly certain of already, the memory of the desperation on his brother's face all too fresh. And though his brother hid it well behind a blank mask (and since when had Peter ever _hidden_ his feelings?), the trembling of his shoulders gave it away.

Lucy and Susan…he was not so certain about. His sisters had always been so _forgiving_, but this was more than simply hurt feelings. He had _betrayed_ them, had nearly gotten them _killed_, for heaven's sake!

Helplessly, he held out his hands, looking from sibling to sibling. "I'm sorry," he whispered, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He shook his head, and they began cascading down his cheeks.

/Aslan help me./

"I'm so sorry," he croaked.

There was about two seconds of dumbfounded silence from his siblings and then, Lucy shrieked. "_Edmund_!"

Before Edmund quite understood what was happening, he suddenly found his littlest sister barreling into his chest.

There was barely any time to react. He stiffened in shock, nearly shoved her away (and caught himself just in time), and hissed, as his back and ribs flared up painfully.

Startled, scared, Lucy jerked back, her lower lip quivering. For a horrible moment, Edmund thought she might start crying. Then she looked at his face—which was probably near-white at this point—and her eyes widened.

Without so much as a warning, and before Edmund could even protest, he abruptly found his jerkin being unclasped by small, somewhat clumsy fingers and the neck of his tunic being untied.

As the soft material was pushed aside, the white linen of his bandages was exposed. If possible, Lucy's eyes widened even more. This time when she pulled back, she really _was_ crying. "Oh, _Ed_!" she exclaimed.

Completely embarrassed and more than little terrified, Edmund quickly crouched on one knee in front of his little sister. He knew Peter often talked to Lucy like this, and he hoped it would help her now. "Hey," he mumbled, awkwardly ruffling her hair. "It's okay. The Dryads and the Healers took care of it." He bit his lower lip when he noticed he'd made a bit of a mess of her hair.

Before he had even properly thought about it, his fingers began smoothing the auburn strands carefully back into place. His movements were clumsy, and uncertain. When Lucy's dark eyes widened yet again, he was sure it hadn't worked.

That is, until the next second when she burst into a flurry of tears and promptly attacked his neck, catching it in a near-stranglehold.

"Lu!" he gasped as her weight toppled the both of them to the ground.

Or would have, if Susan hadn't chosen that moment to catch him under his arm. He felt Lucy being gently pried off his neck, and glanced up just in time to see Peter carefully gather their little sister into his arms and balance her—all eight years of age that she was—on his hip. His brother caught him watching, and offered a crooked half-smile, before stepping back and allowing Susan to help Edmund to his feet.

He'd barely stood up when he found himself crushed in yet another embrace, hard enough to make him squeak. He hadn't thought Susan was quite that strong. Mortified, and more than a little uncomfortable, Edmund hesitantly patted his older sister's back. "'Lo, Su," he muttered.

Where she had buried her dark head in his shoulder, Susan gave a strangled laugh.

There was a thick chuckle from Peter's direction as his older brother took in his predicament. Unwrapping one arm from around Lucy, his brother stretched out his fingers to tuck a stray strand of ebony hair behind Edmund's ear. "Come on," another wet chuckle, "let's get you something to eat."

Had he been aware of it, Edmund would have felt Aslan's proud—somewhat sad—golden eyes on his back as the Lion watched the four siblings head off to the morning meal.

_Tbc._


End file.
